


Wake Me Up Inside

by charis2770



Category: Bleach
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dream Sex, Fix-It, Jushiro has been gone for several years at the beginning of this fic, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post canon, Rating will go up in Chapter Two, Soulmates, post major character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 02:58:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16400054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charis2770/pseuds/charis2770
Summary: Because I am a giant nerd and just finished binge watching the entire anime in actual order for the first time, I'm a little fixated right now. That, and I'm cosplaying Urahara in December. And also I've NEVER been able to bear what happened to Jushiro. And upon actually going through every single page of Bleach fanfiction on this site I am stunned to discover that this has NEVER BEEN WRITTEN (at least, not with porn, and ohh there will be). Some people have written stuff that ignores that he was ever gone, but nothing like this exactly. Whaat?I realize that these two aren't exactly a very popular choice for most writers, but I think their relationship is absolutely beautiful. I haven't written anything just for myself in a long time, and this story has been demanding that I write it. There's only a very brief and not very smutty smut scene in this chapter, which is part of a dream, but there will be filth in chapter two, in case anyone actually reads this and cares. Old guys can be nasty too, I should know.





	Wake Me Up Inside

“Kyoraku-Soutaicho.”

 

_ No, _ he thinks to himself, pulling his blanket more tightly around his shoulders. With a soft snore, he turns away from the voice, putting his back to it and cracking open his eye. The sky through his window is palest, soft silver with the coming dawn. Even he is never required to get up so early. Even though he’s never allowed the luxury of sleeping in past the time for the work day to begin, this is too early even for the implacable and ever faithful Nanao to be forcing him from his bed (though he has to admit she does so more gently these days than in the past). He squeezes the eye shut and does his best to return to his dream.

 

Oh, it’s a good dream. The bad ones are far more frequent, full of shadows torn from a pale form who shrieks his agony to the sky, the sound rending Shunsui’s own heart from his chest, full of wet, tearing coughs and fountaining blood, full of dull and unending sorrow that pulls him down into chilling grief that stops his breath and shatters his bones (that dream feels very much like all of his waking hours). The good ones are rarer, and so he clings to them. 

 

This one is one of the rarest. It comes not just with sight, but with sensation, scent and sound. Warm, deep rose-gold sunshine of evening through open shoji panels falls on the raised, Western-style bed (he had gone to great effort to acquire it because it would be easier to get in and out of during bouts of illness and the weakness following). The bedding is soft and smells of lavender and jasmine. The luxurious sheets sliding against his skin are nothing compared to the heated skin pressed against his own. He can feel the prickle of sweat in the hair on his chest as it rubs across tightly peaked, pale pink nipples. The gust of warm breath on his neck makes his skin pebble in response. Soft lips and the drag of the edge of teeth make his breath catch in his chest. A low, throaty moan when he rolls his hips deep and slow brings a hot clench of lust in his loins and at the base of his spine. Heavily lidded, moss-jade eyes stare deeply into his own, the pupils dilated with passion. Calloused hands grip his shoulders, the wrists and forearms corded with muscle from hundreds of years of sword training, blunt nails digging into his back, pulling a soft hiss from between his teeth. Clenching, slick, velvet-soft heat envelops his slowly thrusting cock, gently tugging him ever closer to bliss. No matter how many times they do this, Jushiro is always almost virginally tight. Jushiro is….

 

Jushiro….

 

“Kyoraku-Soutaicho. Captain Commander!”

 

The voice cuts through the fading remnant of the dream, shredding its vestiges from his mind like a million tiny blades, the deep, even voice pulling him from sleep despite his efforts to ignore it. Reality hits him like a deluge of icy water dashed over his body. He groans at the weight of his inevitable wakefulness, unable to continue to ignore the out-of-place tone he can hear in the other man’s voice. Also there is the very fact of his presence in Shunsui’s bedroom at all. He sighs heavily, choking down the almost unbearable tightness in his throat that makes it so hard to breathe sometimes, even after seven years. After all, what is seven years to them? A drop in an ocean when one has lived a thousand, with a thousand more yawning before him like an empty chasm. A grey eye, shadowed with ghosts, blinks open and stares sightlessly at the pale sky for several long moments, then blinks once more, hard. When it opens again, the ghosts are hidden away behind mild, lazy good humor. He rolls onto his back and looks up. Then frowns.

 

“Byakuya-kun,” he drawls mildly, “what a pleasant surprise. What brings you to my chambers? And with such an…,” he slowly gives the younger captain a lazy eye-fuck because he can get away with it, “... _ indecent _ appearance?”

 

On any other captain of the 13 Court Guard Squads, such an adjective would be stretching it to the point of absurdity. Kuchiki-Taicho’s uniform is as impeccable as always, his shihakusho neatly pressed, obi precisely knotted, haori spotlessly white, Senbonzakura hanging just so at his hip. But despite these things, Byakyua’s appearance is still startling for the lack of three things. His deceptively fine wrists and hands are bare. No windflower silk scarf drapes around his neck and shoulders (its second incarnation, which had caused a great uproar among the elders of his clan when Byakuya had ordered a new one to be woven for him, the first in hundreds of years, after he’d refused to accept the return of the first one, which nowadays spends its time tied around his lieutenant’s bright crimson head). And his black hair falls loose around his shoulders and over one silver eye, which is really what brings the chosen word to Kyoraku’s mind. Without his kenseikan, Byakuya’s appearance  _ is _ almost indecently attractive, a fact the Captain Commander can appreciate, having cause to remember it quite clearly despite the decades which have passed (but that’s another story, of course). Byakuya’s eyebrows crease in a tiny frown.

 

“You need to come with me, Soutaicho,” he says evenly, ignoring the comment. Shunsui stretches slowly and ignores him right back.

 

“That’s not really an answer, ne, Bya-kun,” he says instead, the old nickname revenge for the lost dream and ridiculous hour. He can’t help but be surprised when the other man’s left eye doesn’t even twitch. 

 

“Senpai,” he says softly instead, “get up and come with me. Right now.”

 

This draws the older man into a sitting position, blankets falling from his naked shoulders to pool around his waist. The younger shinigami hasn’t called him  _ that _ in a very long time. Not since he’d been a student, and two older captains had agreed to help with his training at the request of Yamamoto-Soutaicho because of the potential he’d seen in the young heir. And not since a brief but very lovely series of nights entirely related to the reason Shunsui knows what Byakuya looks like with his hair unbound. Everyone had always thought Jushiro to be a kind and compassionate man, and they’d been right. Everyone had also thought him to be a virtuous man, and they’d been very, very wrong. Jushiro had…

 

Jushiro…

 

Kyoraku closes his eye for the briefest of moments. 

 

“Is something wrong, Kuchiki-Taicho?” he asks, dread forming a small knot in the pit of his stomach.  _ Please don’t let anything be wrong _ , he thinks pleadingly.  _ We’ve only just really begun to recover. _

 

“I...it is so early that not many have yet seen,” says Byakuya, frowning, his words slow and halting, as if he cannot quite think of what to say, which is in and of itself cause for alarm. “And...those who have...I was taking my morning tea when a servant came. I felt. It must be you. Please. Shunsui, please come with me.”

 

The dread in Kyoraku’s stomach tightens further, and he no longer feels the slightest desire to tease the other man. He reaches out beside him, hand knocking over an empty sake bottle (he only drinks at night now, after his duties for the day are done, rather than keep a bottle with him at all times, which is tiresome as it requires him to keep his spiritual pressure under tight control entirely of his own accord at all times, but Nanao is a slave driver and insists it wouldn’t be proper to appear to be drunk all the time anymore). He growls irritably and adjusts his eyepatch  _ and _ his reach. He’s compensated for the loss of his eye, but sometimes when he first wakes up in the morning, his depth perception is still a little off. This time his hand closes accurately on his folded shitagi and kosode.

 

“Very well,” he sighs. “Give me a moment. I’ll be right with you.”

 

Byakuya turns and exits his chambers, pulling the shoji panel closed behind him to afford his Commander privacy to dress, making Kyoraku’s mouth twitch once in silent amusement, although the cold dread remains. A soft, low rumble of another voice raises in quiet inquiry in the passageway outside. Shunsui recognizes the tone of Renji’s voice as he rises with a quiet groan at the stretch and pop of joints and old injuries. As he tightens the ties on his hakama and swipes absently at the wrinkles, then pulls on shitagi and kosode, then his pink kimono, and scoops up his sugegasa, he can hear the murmur of their conversation if not the actual words, and tries to reflect that many good things have come from the years of terrible conflict. That some things have been gained despite unbearable loss; an ending to Byakuya’s many years of aching loneliness, the return of lost friends (Kisuke’s inscrutable smirk hidden behind his paper fan flits across Shunsui’s mind, his silly striped hat bent slightly towards another head covered in bright copper spikes, another hand on Ichigo’s shoulder, tanned and battle-scarred, leading to shockingly blue eyes that match equally bright hair which is never far away from them…). But the happiness of old lovers isn’t enough to calm the churning in his stomach in the moment, or enough to really soothe the holes in his heart and soul that never go away. The weight on his shoulders is almost too much to bear as he turns towards the door. 

 

He stops to put on his waraji, bent under the weight, loathe to go and face whatever this new, terrible thing which has stolen Byakuya’s usual calm eloquence. It must be bad. If it were hollows, or an arrancar attack (there are still some of them left alive, but surely those remaining are content in what they’ve rebuilt in Hueco Mundo, uneasy allies, but allies nonetheless), or even lost Quincies ( _ No, _ he tells himself firmly,  _ Yhwach is dead), _ Kuchiki-Taicho would have said. He places a hand on the wooden frame of the door, fingers clenching tightly for a moment as he heaves a soft sigh. He squares his shoulders and takes Katen Kyokotsu up from their stand. As he slides his zanpakuto through his sash, he murmurs quietly to them.

 

“Let’s hope you’re not needed today, ladies.” He ignores the murmur of disagreement in the back of his mind. His girls are considerably more bloodthirsty than he’ll ever be, especially now. Steeling himself, he slides open his door. Renji straightens abruptly, having been leaning over his captain’s shoulder to whisper in Byakuya’s ear, cutting off whatever he’d been saying. He executes a short bow (it had taken Renji less time than many of the others to accept Kyoraku’s annoyance at shows of obeisance from those he still considers his comrades rather than his subordinates).

 

“Good morning, Soutaicho. Sorry to wake you so early.”

 

“If you’ll follow me, Commander,” Byakuya interrupts them before Kyoraku can return the greeting. 

 

“Lead the way,” replies Shunsui, hiding his dread behind easy good humor as is his default.

 

“I’ll be right behind you, Captain,” says Renji, whose shunpo has improved beyond measure but who will probably never be quite as fast as the other two. Byakuya’s mouth quirks up at one corner. On anyone else’s face, this could be interpreted as a smile of almost startling brilliance. Kyoraku’s glad Byakuya has learned to smile, he is, but he can’t help but wonder a little at its presence  _ now _ , in face of….whatever it is, and he’s starting to get a little annoyed at the secrecy.

 

“As it should be, “ murmurs Byakuya as he turns. Renji smirks and bows.

 

“Took a while,” he fires back, smirk widening to a grin, “but I know my place.” 

 

Shunsui’s heart clenches hard in his chest because he knows better than anyone of the games to which they not-so-subtly allude. Byakuya had learned about them from him and Jushiro and Kisuke a very, very long time ago, after all. There are more flavors than vanilla in the Seireitei. Then, thankfully, he’s able to concentrate on his flash step, following Byakuya in the blink of an eye out of First Divisions’ headquarters, over the roofs of the Gotei 13, directly above the Kuchiki estate, then past the walls and into the wilderness of the Rukongai. Renji appears behind them moments after they come to a halt in a small meadow at the edge of the woods, behind a group of district residents and several shinigami; Captain Hitsugaya, who is also as early a riser as Byakuya (and apparently his lover, although Shunsui doubts very much that Renji will ever come to love being awake before sunrise, being more of a night owl like himself, and suspects that today is more of an exception than a rule since everyone can see that Byakuya has become a kinder and less rigid man than he used to be and probably takes his morning tea outside to let his partner sleep more than because he enjoys the sensation of cold dew on his feet and robe), Muguruma and Hisagi who look as though they’ve been out for a run, being fiercely dedicated to their training (and each other, as if the bite marks on Shuuhei’s neck weren’t obvious enough), and Otoribashi who has his violin with him and looks as if he hasn’t slept, which isn’t surprising at all since everyone knows he loses track of time while composing and that he likes to sit in the woods when doing so. 

 

Byakuya sweeps past them all, ignoring their murmurs, with Shunsui and Renji close behind. There’s an abortive surge amongst the onlookers, but a barked command from Kensei freezes them in their tracks, leaving the three men to advance alone. Confused, tired, growing irritable with the secrecy, and still dreading whatever it is he’s been brought here to see, Kyoraku tamps down on his reiatsus’ inclination to rise with his emotions. It’s easy enough to do, as he’s had centuries of practice. They pass into the shadows of the trees and walk along the wooded path until it bends. Byakuya comes to an abrupt halt, throwing out an arm to stop Shunsui as well. Kyoraku squints a little to peer down the path into the pre-dawn gloom.

 

Up ahead, he can just see a pale figure approaching. It is moving very slowly, and not in a particularly straight line. It staggers in its steps as though drunk. A drunk ghost, shimmering in the shadows. Byakuya’s hand grips Shunsui’s shoulder for a moment, an uncharacteristic gesture of support and friendship.

 

“You should go on alone, Soutaicho,” he says gravely. “We will be waiting.”

 

Frowning a little, Kyoraku looks keenly into the other man’s face from under his hat, but can discern nothing from his expression. He’s usually able to read people better, and Renji’s agitated nerves bleed off him in waves, but Byakuya’s made inscrutable into an art form. Still, surely if the distant figure were truly a threat, none of the shinigami among those assembled would allow their Commander to venture in to face it alone, so he moves towards it, somewhat reassured. He’s still uneasy though, more so because from this distance he  _ should _ be able to easily sense the wavering being’s spirit energy. Especially because Byakuya is carefully shielding his own, as is Shunsui. The Rukon district inhabitants in attendance would be prostrate on the ground or unconscious otherwise. After he’s left Renji and Byakuya several steps behind, Shunsui reaches out towards the approaching figure with his reiatsu, trying harder to sense something about it, most importantly whether it be friend or foe. At first, there is nothing. He concentrates harder. There. It’s there, but barely a flicker, here and gone in an instant like a guttering candle flame. He walks closer, reaching a little harder. The flicker returns, almost as though in response to his own, but then the figure staggers harder and slumps slowly to the ground.

 

All the air in Shunsui’s lungs punches out of him as though he’s been struck by someone a lot stronger than he is. He draws it back in with a great, shuddering gasp, takes one running step, and then flashes forward faster than he’s ever moved in his life (which is saying something) as that tiny flicker lights up every dead nerve in his heavy heart. He hasn’t felt that signature in over seven years which have seemed to him more like seven hundred, and yet it is as familiar to him as his own. His speed nearly causes him to skid in the dirt of the forest’s path when he steps out of shunpo beside the fallen man.

 

He looks terrible, his pale body wrapped in a white yukata little more than skin stretched over bone, his long hair dull and brittle, closed eyes sunk deep in their sockets. He looks more dead than alive, although his chest rises and falls more gently than it used to for all that it does so very slowly. The man is almost unrecognizably a man, but Shunsui would know him anywhere. He is inches from death, his reiatsu almost entirely depleted. But it is unequivocally, unmistakably, unbelievably, miraculously….

 

It  _ is _ . Jushiro is…

 

Jushiro... 


End file.
